The Romanov Conspiracy (10 page)

“Long enough. I’ve learned that a surprise visit to new tenants is often enlightening. It does seem I chose my moment well. I hope this experience has taught you something, Mr. Carlson?”

“To keep my door locked in the future.”

Ravich’s grin widened. “The gun’s loaded, by the way. And I’m well able to use it. Are you armed?”

“No.”

“We’ll see.” The landlord circled Sorg, patting down his clothes.

Sorg felt sweat rise on his forehead, his mind turning somersaults.

Ravich finished, then his free hand caressed the shiny brass telescope. “A fine instrument. German, if I’m not mistaken? Are you
enjoying a spot of bird-watching, Mr. Carlson, or is it something more interesting?”

“What do you want?”

Ravich pulled back the net curtain. “The view is one of the reasons why I bought this property. I hoped one day it might add value to my investment. Alas, the mess that Russia is in, I fear my hope may be a lost cause.”

“What’s your point?”

Ravich wandered across the room and peered in at the Gladstone bag on the kitchen table. “I keep asking myself what a man like you is doing with a spyglass pointed at the palace grounds. An innocent act perhaps, but …”

“But what?

“I’ve kept a discreet eye on you since you rented these rooms. After seeing what I’ve just seen I’m tempted to presume that you’re a spy.”

“You presume a lot, Mr. Ravich.”

Ravich jerked the gun. “Don’t take me for a fool. I worked in naval intelligence for years. You’re watching the palace where the Romanovs are imprisoned.”

“Where’s this all leading?”

Ravich’s eyes flashed greedily. “I really don’t give a curse who you are or who you’re working for. Only that you’re sensible enough to come to an arrangement.” The landlord rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in a universal gesture. “You carry on doing whatever it is you’re doing and I turn a blind eye in return for a little generosity.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t. But I think we’d agree things could get messy for both of us by involving the police.”

“I have cash in the other room.”

Ravich motioned with the gun toward the kitchen. “I’m very glad to hear it. But I warn you—try anything and I’ll blow your head off.”

Ravich pressed the revolver into the back of Sorg’s neck and they stepped into the kitchen. “Where’s the money?”

Sorg pointed to the open cupboard and the unscrewed panel lying by it. “In there, in a canvas bag.”

“Remove it. Slowly.”

Sorg hefted out the canvas. He went to open the bag but Ravich said, “Stop. Place your hands above your head and step away.”

Sorg did as he was told.

Ravich used his free hand to loosen the bag string. He rummaged and plucked out a wad of rubles and American dollar bills. Sweat rose on Ravich’s brow. “How much is in here?”

“Seven hundred rubles in different currencies.”

Ravich licked his lips and his hand dug greedily into the Gladstone. “It’s not enough. I’ll want more. Much more.”

At that exact moment Sorg’s fingers grasped at the pen in his breast pocket. Before he could remove the top off the steel nib, Ravich brought up the revolver and it exploded once.

The shot cracked past Sorg’s shoulder. He dropped the pen and grabbed for the gun, his adrenaline pumping. The weapon detonated again, gouging plaster from the wall. Ravich was a big, beefy man but Sorg caught him off balance and pushed against him with all his might. Ravich toppled and Sorg fell on top of him and they rolled on the floor.

Ravich gave a pained grunt, rage in his eyes. “I’ll kill you!”

Sorg struggled to get control of the revolver, using all his weight to twist the gun toward Ravich’s head and slip his finger inside the trigger guard. The gun exploded again, Ravich’s skull snapped back, and his eyes rolled open.

Sorg caught his breath. A pool of blood spread behind Ravich’s skull. He twitched violently and fell still. Sorg retrieved his pen from the floor and pushed himself up to a kneeling position, his face bathed in sweat.

He examined Ravich. A gaping bullet hole was drilled above his left eye, exiting at the back of his head. Sorg pried the gun from Ravich’s fingers. His legs weak, he staggered into the kitchen and threw up into the sink.

When he could vomit no more, he turned on the faucet and rinsed away the mess, and as much of the blood spatter as he could from his clothes. His overcoat and scarf would cover the rest. He opened one of the drawers.

It contained a box of wax candles and a couple of dishcloths. He grabbed a cloth and wiped his mouth. He listened to his heart hammering furiously. It was the first time he ever killed and it made him feel scared, yet exhilarated that he survived.

His survival instinct kicked in and Sorg crossed to the window and stared beyond the curtains. The street was empty. He moved to the front door, opened it gingerly with shaking fingers. The courtyard was deserted.

Ravich had swept it of footprints, except for his own. Sorg’s mind worked furiously. If he simply left the body where it lay and disappeared, perhaps Ravich had relatives who would search for him. Sorg couldn’t be certain of anything, but knew that he had to move fast and without panic.

He stashed the spyglass telescope and banknotes in the canvas bags and tucked both inside his Gladstone. He screwed up the cubbyhole panel. In the kitchen, a blood pool still blossomed around Ravich’s skull. Sorg removed a wax candle from the drawer, took a dinner plate from another cupboard, and returned to the front room.

He struck a match, lit the candle, and dripped enough wax to stick it to the plate. He left the plate on the edge of the table. Sorg wedged open the kitchen door with a piece of folded newspaper. Finally, he buttoned up his coat and donned his Trilby hat. He opened the valve in the cooker, hearing the snake hiss of the gas flow.

He picked up the Gladstone and stuffed Ravich’s revolver in his coat pocket. He exited by the front door and when he hit the cold air, Sorg was already drenched in sweat.

Minutes later and a hundred yards along the street, he heard the massive boom of the gas explosion, sending a spear of bright orange flame shooting into the air, the shock wave striking his back with the force of a punch, almost knocking him over.

Sorg held on to his hat and kept walking.

7

The blond-haired man with hard blue eyes and a pockmarked face sat beside Uri Andrev’s bed. He wore an ankle-length leather trench coat with a scarf and black leather gloves, his polished boots shining, a Bolshevik party badge on his lapel.

Andrev looked at him as he became conscious and the man’s features settled into focus. His face looked older than its twenty-eight years and his coarse skin told of a poor upbringing. Old scar tissue puckered his face, not unlike a boxer who had gone too many rounds in the ring.

They stared at each other with the easy silence of two men who knew each other a long time, until the blond smiled. “Hello, Uri. It’s been far too long. Two years at least.” His accent was working-class St. Petersburg.

“Leonid. It’s good to see you.”

“And you.” Leonid Yakov studied Andrev, whose dark hair was cropped close to the skull, his face unshaven.

Red welts from malnutrition covered Andrev’s face, his skin blotchy with bruises inflicted by the camp guards.

The room was freezing despite a blazing woodstove in a corner, and the blond removed his leather gloves and blew on his hands. Near the door stood two guards in overcoats and fur-lined hoods, rifles slung over their shoulders. One tall, the other a squat, robust figure with bow legs, both their faces hidden by headgear.

Andrev’s brow felt on fire, an agonizing throbbing in his left shoulder and side. He was in the camp’s sick bay. Sick bay was a joke. It was no more than a filthy wooden shack with a dozen rusting metal beds, vomit-stained floors, coarse blankets, and sackcloth pillows. Disinfectant and rotting bandages stank up the air. A patched sheet hung from
a line of rope, all that separated Andrev from a handful of other ill prisoners, their coughing and sputtering a constant background.

“I’ve got something that might help your pain.” Yakov produced a pewter hip flask from his coat pocket. “Here, have some vodka to warm your belly. Put some sunshine into you.”

Andrev gratefully accepted the flask, touched it to his cracked lips, and sipped. “What are you doing in this godforsaken place?”

Yakov stood. “All in good time. Some friends want to see you. Zoba, you first.”

He beckoned the squat little man with the fur hood. When he came closer, Andrev recognized his dark, Georgian features, a hint of the Asiatic in his wrinkled eyes and powerful physique. His good-humored face was set in a permanent grin. “Hello, Captain.”

They shook hands warmly. “Zoba. What are you doing here?”

The Georgian’s grin broadened. “I keep asking myself the same question. Four years in the trenches and still able to laugh—the commissar here reckons I need my head examined.”

“I’m glad to see you.”

“We had some good and bad times serving together, us three.” He nodded to Yakov’s flask. “Seeing as this is a reunion, I won’t say no to some sunshine.”

Yakov handed him the flask. “Any excuse.”

Zoba grinned, swallowed a mouthful. “There are places in the world a man can die of thirst. In Russia, you’re born with one.”

Yakov said, “I have another surprise, Uri. Come here, little brother.” He beckoned to the other guard, a fair-haired, shy-looking youth who barely looked in his teens, his uniform at least a size too big for him. The young man stepped over and removed his fur hood. “Hello, Uri.”

Andrev beamed, his pleasure obvious.
“Stanislas …”

The youth said proudly, “I joined the Red Guards, Uri. I’m a soldier now.”

“You can’t be, you’re not old enough.”

“I’m almost seventeen, old enough to carry a rifle for Comrade Lenin.”

Andrev said with genuine affection, “What’s the world coming to
when boys start taking up arms? Come here.” He grasped the youth’s hand warmly and hugged him. “The last time I saw you was at my father’s funeral. You looked as if you were still playing with toys. Now look at you.”

Stanislas brandished his rifle. “This has replaced my toys, Uri. All my friends have joined the revolution. Lenin’s our God now. Tell him why we’re here, Leonid.”

Yakov slapped a hand on his brother’s hair and ruffled it. “You talk too much, Stanislas. You and Zoba go find something to eat. It’ll give Uri and me a chance to catch up.”

“I hope you get well soon, Uri.”

Andrev fondly gripped both their hands and then Stanislas and Zoba left. When they closed the door, Andrev’s face was sober. “How could you let Stanislas join the army, Leonid? We’ve both seen the horrors of war.”

Yakov sat and took a swig from the flask. “I couldn’t change his mind. He’s like me, impetuous and headstrong.”

“Don’t let him serve, I beg you.”

“I know Stanislas has always been like a kid brother to you. Don’t worry, it’s why I had him transferred to my unit, to have him under my wing. I’ll keep him out of harm’s way. Here, drink some more.”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Vodka is all there is to numb your pain, I’m afraid. We ran out of chloroform.
Drink
, it’ll help you forget that we’re on different sides.”

Andrev swallowed a few gulps of the scorching liquid and coughed.

Yakov smiled. “It’s the best Siberian vodka, a hundred proof. Here, they use it to fuel storm lamps. The lamp stays alight even in the worst blizzard. The trouble is putting the lamp out afterward.”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

Yakov’s smile faded and he picked up a damp cloth, dabbed sweat from Andrev’s brow. “The sergeant, Mersk, said you were troublesome. He looks like a nasty piece of work.”

“Mersk despises everyone. He claims escape from here is impossible.”

Yakov shook his head with amusement. “So you decided to give him a run for his money? You always did like a challenge, Uri. Live
dangerously, carefully, was always your motto. Remember when we broke out from the German prison camp?”

“I made you trudge for three nights without sleep through heavy snow.”

Yakov nodded. “As if that wasn’t bad enough, you made me sing those rowdy Cossack marching songs we knew in childhood, just to help me stay awake. You kept me alive, Uri.” Yakov added, “By the way, the drunken idiot who calls himself the camp medic tells me that the bullet went clean through flesh. I’ve dressed it as best I could and used vodka to clean it. But I think your shoulder’s dislocated.”

Andrev stared at Yakov’s black leather coat, a Communist Party badge on his lapel. “Since when did you start working for the secret police, Leonid?”

“I was appointed to the Cheka by Comrade Lenin with the rank of commissar.”

“I’m impressed. You never said what you’re doing here.”

Yakov avoided the question. “Let me take a look at your arm.” He examined the limb. “It’s definitely dislocated. I’d keep the orderly away, he’d probably make things worse.”

Andrev winced. His brow felt feverish, his shoulder scorching with pain. “Set the bone for me.”